


Return To Ostagar

by rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, First Kiss, Multiple Wardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which out of the ashes, comes the start of something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return To Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in a universe where there are two Wardens, Rhoswen Mahariel and Olympia Cousland. Everything else is relatively the same as it should be. There is reference to past Tamlen/Mahariel, and a few more gruesome aspects of bodies decaying.

The camp was quiet, that night. No one really felt much like talking, sharpening swords and darning holes in clothes while doing little more than breathing. Even though they settled miles from the ruined fortress, the smell of putrid, burning flesh still seemed to hang heavy in the air. For her part, Rhoswen couldn’t shake the pervasive images in her head of what Cailan was reduced to in their absence: a rotting corpse, naked and undignified, pinned like a butterfly to a board. His beautiful golden hair had nearly all fallen out, what was left little more than wisps of brittle straw, and his skin hung unnaturally in a way that had almost made her sick. She wasn’t the only one, either, and getting him down without ruining the body or, sadly, vomiting had proved to be a trial until Sten was kind enough to supersede them.

While Alistair hunted for a suitable pyre, Rhoswen had watched Sten wrap Cailan in hide stolen from a darkspawn’s body. It stank, and looked crude and out of place, but it was better than leaving him uncovered. Olympia stared as well, her eyes red, but she didn’t shed any tears – whether out of defiance or exhaustion, Rhoswen still couldn’t say.

They hadn’t found Duncan. Alistair looked, she knew, but there hadn’t been a single sign of him. All he left behind were his dagger and his sword, still sticking out of that horrid ogre’s chest. Olympia had the dagger now, turning it over in her hands and looking at it numbly, and the sword lay propped up outside Alistair’s tent, where he’d left it after giving it a quick clean up. He now held a different sword, polishing it without truly looking at it. It was beautiful – dragonbone, Sten determined, inspecting it with a critical eye, and covered in bluish runes. “A sword fit for a king,” he’d said, the smallest hint of a sneer on his lips, and handed it to Alistair in a way he likely didn’t intend to be ceremonial. The panic in Alistair’s eyes was easily masked as surprise, so Rhoswen knew that no one else suspected the blade he held loosely in his hands once belonged to his father.

She wished she could say something, anything, but who to comfort? What to say? Even for those of them who hadn’t been at Ostagar, seeing the devastation of the Blight seemed to drive something home. What they faced was worse than many people could even imagine.

In any case, Alistair told her about his parentage in confidence. Trying to talk to him about it in front of everyone else would likely be a mistake.

One by one, the others wandered off to bed, their goodnights muffled if they came at all. Alistair volunteered for first watch, claiming that he couldn’t sleep, and Rhoswen offered to join him. It left them alone once Wynne disappeared into her tent, moving a little slower for the aches of the day, and after Olympia heaved a last heavy sigh and took the dagger away with her. Rhoswen felt a pang for it, but let it go. What right did she have to Duncan’s belongings? She knew him the least out of them all, and in a way, it comforted her that she wanted something of his. Perhaps that meant some of Olympia’s anger towards him had subsided.

Even the campfire crackled gently, muted as though it, too, desired to be respectful. The heat of it brought to mind the pyre, where she had stood so close that sweat beaded on her forehead while she watched the body slowly vanish. What was the purpose of such a funeral? It was comforting, she supposed, being able to take a loved one’s ashes from the burning once it was done, but how that compared to leaving a living memorial, she was unsure. Tamlen’s tree was far away, but it likely stood rooted still, and it would grow into a part of the forest, as Tamlen had been part of their clan.

She had considered suggesting a tree, for a moment, but the ground in the ruins was frozen solid, unsuitable for planting, and she feared offending Cailan’s memory. A human king’s ways were not the ways of her people.

Huffing, Alistair laid his father and brother’s sword to the side, throwing the polishing rag in the direction of his belongings. It missed, falling short, but the gesture was enough.

“What a day,” he groaned, stretching his arms high until Rhoswen heard his back crack with the pressure. Slumping into his lap, Alistair rubbed a hand over his eyes and gave her a weak smile. “I can keep watch on my own, tonight. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Impossible,” Rhoswen said, giving him her own smile. It felt nearly uncomfortable, almost like a contortion after the solemn mask she’d been wearing all day, but natural. Easier than grief. “I’ll stay, if you’ll have me.”

The light flush high in his cheeks reminded her of the pressed rose she kept hidden in one of her books, a gift that she knew the sight of by heart. “Please.”

They sat in silence for a time, companionable rather than awkward, and Rhoswen pondered how strange life was. Not more than four hours ago, they stood on the field of a battle that was already going down in history books, staring around them at frozen dead bodies and smelling snow sullied with blood, and now? Alistair filled her mind: the scuff of his shoe in the tightly packed frost, the puff of warm breath that lingered in the air, and the way his gaze kept flicking toward her and then darting away again. _Vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa’vunin,_ she thought. Life always found ways to march on.

Alistair caught her attention by clearing his throat, his bitten-down nails digging into the log he sat on reflexively, clench and relax. “So,” he tried. His voice caught on something and came out rather higher than he anticipated. Rhoswen smiled as he coughed again, not pretending she hadn’t heard, but not making fun, either. “So,” Alistair said again, perhaps overcompensating a little by pitching his voice much lower, “I have a question.”

“Please,” Rhoswen echoed.

“When this is over,” Alistair continued, speaking slowly as he seemed to weigh his words carefully, “you know, all the tragedy, brushes with death, the constant battles and the Blight looming over us… when it’s over, will you miss it?”

Would she? On a different day she might have said no or yes without thinking, but after everything they saw, after the memories they had to live through again… she didn’t think she was sure. She wished for something to do with her hands, something to occupy her so that she didn’t embarrass herself by staring. Instead, Rhoswen decided to try taking a page out of Alistair’s book: the one labeled ‘Deflecting with Humor.’ “Of course,” she said, avoiding looking him in the eye. “I tear up, just thinking about it.”

Alistair laughed, and the sound filled her chest. He laughed harder and a bit louder than was necessary, she thought, but he deserved it. There had been so little to laugh about, lately. “As do I. Think what we’ll be giving up, after all.” He ticked things off on his fingers, counting them: “No more running for our lives, no more darkspawn, no more camping in the frost-bitten middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve always done that,” Rhoswen pointed out.

“Well,” he replied, “nobody’s perfect.”

Rhoswen couldn’t keep her lip from curling as he chuckled to himself, and a sense of relief settled over her. His question was answered, or at least evaded, and that was the end of it – they would move on.

That, quite naturally, was too much to hope for. When they had been quiet again for a while, Alistair shifted where he sat and closed his eyes to speak.

“What I meant to ask,” he said, keeping his gaze downcast, “was… I mean, this isn’t the right time, I know, and it probably sounds ridiculous. But I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, and… even though we’ve barely known each other two months, I feel like I’ve… come to care for you. A great deal.” He scrubbed the back of his head with a hand, only meeting her eyes in short glances after which his face deepened a few more shades of red, each time.

She didn’t know what to say. They both considered each other friends, she knew, and there had long been an understanding of _something_ between them, but neither of them had tried to define it. Her mind was a roaring blank, devoid of anything she might offer him as encouragement or recognition, so instead, she only stared.

In the absence of an answer, Alistair stumbled to fill the holes of the conversation. “Maybe it’s because we’ve, we’ve gone through so much together, I don’t know; or maybe… I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself.” He looked so dejected at the idea that Rhoswen felt her own heart sink in response, but before she could open her mouth, he turned fully to face her. They were several feet apart still, but suddenly the distance felt suffocating, insurmountable, too much. “Am I? Fooling myself, I mean?” he asked, his hands still in his lap, clasped together. “Or do you think you might ever… feel the same way?”

Rhoswen looked at those hands, his fingers thick and spatulate, and thought about how it felt when they stole between hers and pressed. She studied his eyes, brown and warm, thought suddenly of Tamlen and the way he used to smile at her – and then she knew.

“No,” she said, getting to her feet. Alistair looked stricken for a moment, but she shook her head. “No, I… you’re not fooling yourself.” She walked from her spot to his log, dropping down to perch so close that their legs brushed against each other. He drew back a bit at her closeness, inhaling a sharp little breath as she set a hand on his arm. “You mean a great deal to me. You have for some time.”

That close, she could hear the shallow way Alistair breathed, see the way his eyes flicked from hers down to her chin, and the warmth of his body next to hers was a greater comfort than she could have asked for. His hand seemed to tremble as he reached down to take hers, holding it loosely as though he feared she might pull it away.

“Oh,” he said. Triggered like a spring trap, he leaned forward quickly and pressed his mouth against hers, startling her. Her lips parted in a gasp, swallowing Alistair’s quiet groan, and closed again as her eyes slid shut.

He kissed less like he’d never done it before and more like he was out of practice, she noticed dully, more focused on the fingers that slipped into her hair and the sweetness of his smell filling her head like a fog. Under her palm, his cheek still felt flushed, stubble bristling as she brushed against the way it grew. It had been a while since she’d kissed anyone, either. Heady with the excitement of it, she thought perhaps years went by before Alistair tilted his lips away and leaned his forehead against hers. He groaned again, but she knew him well enough by now to know it was about self-doubt, not pleasure.

“That… wasn’t too fast, was it?” he asked. When Rhoswen opened her eyes, she saw his were still closed, screwed up under what she thought was a furrowed brow. It was hard to tell, this close, his features only discernable when she looked one at a time. The thought sent a thrill through her.

As her other body parts woke to sensation, the rush of blood in her ears getting a little quieter, she felt the pressure of his hand still in hers and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t know,” she said, turning her face to nuzzle into his forehead. “We may have to try again to find out.”

“You’re awful,” he laughed, the puffs of his breath tickling her cheeks. “I don’t know why I think you’re so sweet and innocent.”

“It’s the face. I have a trustworthy look.”

As if to ascertain her point, Alistair drew back and settled the hand that had been in her hair along her jaw, thumb stroking backwards along the vallaslin lines that swooped low on her face. He did nothing but touch for a few moments, looking as though he meant to memorize her.

“Maker’s breath,” he sighed on an exhale, “but you’re beautiful. I am a lucky man.”

There was a great deal of evidence to the contrary. None of them had the best luck, or were favored of their gods, judging by where they all found themselves. In this moment, however, even with everything that had gone wrong in the last few months, even with all the scars her heart still bore, Rhoswen understood what Alistair meant.

They sat there a few hours more, mostly silent, leaned against each other as Alistair traced the lines and calluses of her palms with his fingers. Ostagar still loomed in the distance, both on the landscape and in their minds, but she had been told all her life that life sprang forth from death. What she learned then, kissing Alistair again to bid him goodnight, was that life didn’t only have to mean a tree.

**Author's Note:**

> This may also be found at my tumblr, salutationtothestars. Olympia Cousland belongs to tumblr user queenofeden.


End file.
